


Sleepless

by AirgiodSLV



Category: Bandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-31
Updated: 2008-07-31
Packaged: 2017-10-19 02:39:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/195931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AirgiodSLV/pseuds/AirgiodSLV
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“Hey,” Spencer says, a raised eyebrow of a question that Brendon answers with the quick flash of a smile: “Hey.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleepless

They’re in Köln when Brendon finally recognizes the feeling. It’s been an itch under his skin for the past two days, leaving him caffeine-restless and unsettled. He gets loud, until Ryan’s words turn sharp at the edges, and then he gets quiet. It’s still not enough, though.

The bus is warm, still and quiet with everyone asleep in the bunks, stifling. Brendon lies awake for an hour, gets up to play a video game in the hopes that it will turn his brain off, and finally goes back to bed when that doesn’t work and he starts feeling like a twitchy zombie.

After another half an hour, he admits defeat and gets up again. Having a plan usually helps, soothes the tremors under his skin, but he already knows that it won’t be enough tonight. Even just thinking about it sets him itching again, impatient to be in motion.

He sneaks past the rows of silent sleepers, past Jon’s soft sleep-wheeze and the rustle of Spencer turning over behind a curtain. It’s too hot to be sleeping with the curtains closed, in Brendon’s opinion, too claustrophobically oppressive, but then no one else is up at four-thirty in the morning unable to sleep. Everyone else is lost to dreams.

His own dreams should have given it away long before this, he thinks. He dreamt about being in a bar, and he was wearing a coat, trench-belted and heavy on his shoulders. A man asked him what he was wearing beneath it, and he was cock-sure and coy in the dream, enough to ask the man how badly he wanted to know.

He doesn’t remember anything more of that one, but there had been another, a night later, where he’d ended up lying on the table of some Asian-style restaurant, low to the floor, with voices murmuring over his head; incomprehensible, like the buzzing of bees. He’d taken a breath, and someone had lifted a piece of sushi – laid out over his ribs, curving in a gentle line – with their chopsticks, dipped it into the wasabi pooled in his navel.

He tried not to move, not to breathe, and then there was air gusting warm and feathery over his ribs, raising the fine hairs on his arms, and the shocking cold of sake spilling over his skin, running outward from his sternum to curl over his sides, threatening to drip onto the floor. It didn’t make it all the way; there was a tongue, warm and wet, tracing the path of the liquid.

He’d woken up hard from that one, panting, with sweat clammy on his skin, making his bunk smell sharp and acrid. It had taken him less than two minutes to jerk off, and less than five to roll over, wiping the mess onto whatever came to hand, and fall back asleep.

He should have known then. Instead he wrote it off as a product of his own stir-craziness, the insanity of touring, and let the buzz in his bones grow a little stronger every day. Now it’s too much for him to ignore, and something needs to be done.

He closes the door to the back lounge to keep most of the light from spilling out, then feels his way to the bathroom and turns on the overhead light. It takes his eyes a moment to adjust, dark spots blinking through his vision, and then he sees his reflection, pillow-creased and squinting in the mirror.

He showers first. It’s not like he needs it, he showered after the show, but it’s part of the ritual and helps settle him. Shaving is next, and he borrows Spencer’s razor instead of using his own electric, lathering up until his face is thick with cream. Spencer won’t mind too much, as long as Brendon buys him new blades. He shaves slowly, methodically; every stroke leaves him cleaner, calmer. He rinses away the rest of the cream and splashes water around the edge of the sink, washing the short bristling hairs down the drain.

He splashes more water on his face, and pats it dry before adding the cool bite of Ryan’s aftershave, the only bottle sitting unprotected outside of their hanging toiletry kits. Jon has something spicier, but this will do – it’s almost subtle, and unfamiliar enough on his skin to make him aware of it.

He gets dressed in the dark, picking out clothes by feel and dim suggestion of colour. The shirt he chooses is a few years old, and tight enough to pull across his chest when he buttons it. It might not even be his.

Putting on eyeliner doesn’t require much effort by this point, a habit formed by months backstage playing sold-out auditoriums. He’s still careful, still traces the lines straight and dark with fixed attention to detail. He gels his hair into spikes, carefully artless, and is on his way towards the door when someone looms up out of the darkness and blocks the way.

It takes him a second to recover from the heart attack, but when he does, the flurry in his chest only rushing double-time instead of triple, he recognizes the hunched shoulders, the silhouette.

There’s a frowning silence, and then Spencer asks – quietly, so as not to wake the others, but not in a whisper – “Where are you going?”

Brendon’s heart speeds up a little again, automatically. “Out,” he whispers. He’s not as brave as Spencer, his voice not as rumblingly low.

Spencer shifts his weight, and Brendon recognizes that, too. It’s his decision-making silence. Spencer takes a step forward then, and Brendon takes a step away automatically, without even considering. He can tell Spencer’s surprised, but makes no other move to intercept him. Brendon doesn’t have any intention of being deterred, but Spencer just steps away and says, “Make sure you tell Zack.”

Brendon isn’t stupid. He writes out a note – messy but legible, he thinks, although it’s hard to tell in the dark – detailing roughly where he plans to go, how long he thinks he’ll be, affirming that he has his phone and keys in case of an emergency. He’s not foolish enough to wake Zack; the man would be alert in a heartbeat, but Brendon doesn’t want to explain, he just wants to _go_. He leaves the note next to Zack’s nose, under his pillow, and slips out before anyone else can wake. Zack is a notoriously light sleeper.

He hears Spencer shuffling back to the bunks as he goes, right before the door shuts with a quiet click.

The club takes him a while to find. It’s not that he’s picky, really, or looking for anything in particular – well, he is, but it’s not anything a specific club can be sure to provide – more that he’s unfamiliar with the city. If they were in Berlin…well, Brendon knows a lot of places to go in Berlin. But he’s not near any of them, so he puts that out of his mind.

The cabbie has a few suggestions, and Brendon picks one mostly at random, leaning back against the headrest while they drive. The city is lit up even at night, and brightly-lit signs imprint themselves in flashes of colour across the backs of Brendon’s eyelids.

They pull up to a club that looks like it could be anywhere, in any city, and Brendon undoes the top button of his shirt, tips the cabbie and heads in. It’s even brighter in the club, although that comes and goes in pulses, the heavy dance beat pounding in counterpoint to strobe lights and glow sticks. There are neon signs decorating the walls, abstract bars of garish colour; Brendon follows them around the room until he reaches the bar.

He’s restless, but he’s not stupid; he gets one drink, enough to loosen him up, and then heads out onto the dance floor. He’s not even buzzed, but he doesn’t need to be – the thrum of the bass through the speakers is doing enough all on its own.

He dances with five, six, ten people, and leaves them all. He’s searching, sort of, but when he finds what he’s looking for – and he knows when she smiles at him, sees the teeth sharp beneath her lipstick – he keeps his distance. She lets him, content to dance and wind him in circles, working him up without ever getting close enough to make him shy away. He thinks about going home with her – she would let him – but the others will be waking up soon, and Brendon needs to get back to the bus. If he’s lucky, he can slip the note out from under Zack’s pillow before he wakes up.

She cocks her head when he pulls away, a question. He shakes his head, smiling, and lets his body slow down, dropping away from the rhythm until he’s not a part of the dance still throbbing around them. When she asks, in carefully-articulated English – he wonders how she knew – he shakes his head again and thanks her for the dance. He means it.

When he gets back, there’s just enough time to reclaim his note to Zack and duck into the shower before the alarm goes off and everyone else rouses. Spencer is asleep again; Brendon hears the heavy rhythm of his breathing when he passes the closed curtain.

He’ll be a zombie for the rest of the day, but it was worth it. He can already feel the tension in him dissipating, bleeding away into exhaustion in the aftermath of the club. He’s groggy when he stumbles out of the shower, the last of the adrenaline faded, and Spencer’s the one who has to take a step to the side to keep them from colliding.

“Hey,” Spencer says, a raised eyebrow of a question that Brendon answers with the quick flash of a smile: “Hey.”

He kicks the clothes he wore to the club into a corner, rolled up into a ball of smoke and sweat – he’d had a cigarette on the drive back, the cabbie hadn’t minded and welcomed the tip – and gets dressed in worn jeans, a faded shirt. He hides behind a pair of vampire shades when they leave the bus, and everyone else is still half-asleep, so thankfully no one tries to nudge him into conversation. Ten minutes later he has a Starbucks cup attached to his hand, stealing sips of an iced latte slowly through a green straw. He draws it out, focused while the others order and shuffle around each other in the confined space.

Spencer gets the door on the way out, ushering Brendon through. He feels Spencer’s hand coming before it touches him, recognizes the ghost of it in the small of his back and sidesteps, evading. He smiles quickly to show Spencer it’s nothing personal, and moves down the sidewalk at a brisk pace, letting the slightly-chilled morning air finish waking him back up.

They all give him space once they get to the radio station – Ryan because he’s self-absorbed, and Brendon doesn’t mean that in a harsh way, it’s just the way Ryan is; Jon because he’s still asleep on his feet, coffee or not; and Spencer because he’s aware of Brendon, in a way that Brendon tries not to think too much about, although he thinks that Spencer spends quite a lot of time contemplating it, turning things over in his mind. When it comes down to it, though, Spencer follows his instincts, not his head, and that’s what keeps them at a safe distance on days like today.

He’s nearly dozed off without intending anything of the sort, head back against the fuzzy grain of the sofa upholstery, when Spencer says low-voiced, “Brendon.”

Brendon wakes up, and groggily thanks Spencer’s instincts again, because Spencer’s hand is hovering over his shoulder, unwilling to touch. Brendon spares him another smile, struggling upright, and says, “Time?”

“Five minutes.” Spencer frowns, and Brendon can see the wheels turning, can see him remembering last night and thinking through this morning and putting together all of the puzzle pieces that make up the pulse beneath Brendon’s skin. “I thought you might want a few to wake up.”

“Thanks, man.” Putting on the façade is easy, even if he knows it won’t fool Spencer for a second. It’s mostly autopilot anyway, something to steer him through this interview so he doesn’t have to wear himself out with questions and correct answers while his brain is still fuzzy with weariness. He’s tired. The latte won’t keep him going for more than an hour; he should have gotten an extra shot of espresso.

He doesn’t realize his head is in his hands, palms scrubbing exhaustion from his face, until the shadows shift and he pulls them away, opening his eyes in surprise. Spencer’s crouched down in front of him, studying his face. Brendon wants to be uncomfortable, to shift away and put out the vibes that had warned Spencer off earlier, last night and this morning, but he honestly doesn’t care. He’s too tired for Spencer’s proximity to unsettle him, even with the buzz still lingering under his skin. Last night wasn’t enough, he knows. It was only enough to get him through this part of the day.

Spencer’s watching him, keen-eyed. Brendon drops his hands and looks back.

“Can I help?” Spencer asks, and it’s so far from what Brendon was expecting that he boggles for a minute, empty of words.

“No,” Brendon says. He takes the sting out of it with the slightest hint of a smile, apologetic. “Thanks for offering, though.”

Spencer nods slowly, and backs off, shifting back onto his heels for a second before standing and taking the chair next to Brendon’s end of the sofa. Brendon watches him without real intent, just following the lines of his body; the way he moves away, but not too far. The curve of his shoulders, still half-turned toward Brendon. In case he should need anything. In case he should change his mind and ask.

“Spence,” Brendon says suddenly, surprising himself a little by saying it, but not enough to wish it taken back. Spencer looks over, eyes sharp and aware, waiting. Brendon just looks at him for a few seconds, taking him in, letting himself look through the fuzzy haze of weariness.

“Tell you what,” Brendon says, and it still feels like a surprise, but not a bad one. He’s more sure of this than he has been in a while, even at the club last night with the bass throbbing through his bones and the lights flickering over his skin.

Spencer raises an eyebrow, patient. Brendon gives him the flicker of a smile.

“Next time,” he says. “Next time, I’ll let you try.”

Spencer regards him evenly. Then he says, “Okay.”

“Panic at the Disco,” someone says in the doorway. Ryan stands, nudging Jon until he gets to his feet. Spencer looks away, stretching out and getting ready, limbering up to meet the interviewers.

Brendon pastes on a smile and heads out to face the day.


End file.
